Blood and Water
by EccentricSoundsFun
Summary: Two trails of blood are crossing the US, winding their way across the states in the hopes of meeting. Two infamous, but as of yet uncatchable, serial killers are slicing their way towards one another, each with their sights set on the death of the other: Castiel, a young and ruthless prodigy with a thirst for revenge and Dean Winchester, a man thoroughly disgusted with humankind.
1. Chapter 1

Indianapolis, Indiana

Deep in the crowded streets of Indianapolis, a multitude of cars came and went, passing thousands of people without leaving a single impression. A monstrous, black vehicle squeezed through the crowds while its driver searched the hundreds of neon lights for a suitable eatery. Catching sight of a big chain fast food place, the driver urged his Impala to a small road off the main road in hopes of food. As he pulled through the drive through, he addressed the silent passenger in the backseat.

"Hungry, buddy?" He adjusted the rearview mirror in order to get a good look at the man. He was slumped against the seat, sunglasses askew on his nose and a rumpled button-down half out of his waistband. His dark brown hair was disheveled and aided the sunglasses in hiding his eyes. The driver sighed. "Ah, probably not. Shame I never got your name, though. Actually..." he trailed off, reaching around his seat to fish through the passenger's pockets.

"Here we are!" he smirked, opening the wallet. An old Indiana driver's license was stuffed inside one of the clear pockets, and a large number of credit cards were filed neatly in the other pockets. "Bobby, huh? I'm Dean. Dean Winchester. You know, I got a friend named Bobby. Haven't talked to him in awhile, although I can tell you he had way fewer credit problems than you," he muttered as he shuffled through the wallet. As he fully opened the wallet, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "Oh, hey! You mind buying dinner? I don't have any cash on me." Dean turned and waited for a response from the passenger. Getting none, he nodded and pointed a friendly finger at Bobby.

"You're awesome," he expressed. The car in front of him pulled up, giving him a chance to order.

"Hello, welcome to Pig N' A Poke. What can I get for you?" a muffled voice asked through the speaker.

Dean grinned. "I'm glad you asked. I'll take the special with a large Coke and fries."

"That'll be $8.50."

"No problem," Dean assured the speaker. He rolled up his window and glanced at Bobby through the rearview mirror. "Hope you don't mind. I didn't think you'd be hungry."

When he reached the window, Amy, the new hire at Pig N' A Poke, pushed the thick glass aside and was initally caught off guard. She blushed, awestruck by the effortless way his lips formed a charming smile. She struggled to find words, and stutterd the words she could get out.

"Uh, h-hi! Um. You got the special with f-fries and a drink, right?" she inquired, fighting the urge to twirl a curl of her hair. Dean draped one arm over the window frame, leaning out just enough for the harsh fluorescent lighting to strike the pale green of his irises. Amy felt herself go weak in the knees.

"Sure did," he answere. Amy smiled and remembered her training as she grabbed the food from behind the window. Engage the customer, her manager had said. She scanned the car and noticed a form in the backseat.

"Oh! You didn't get anything for your friend there?" she asked, peering into the glass at the motionless figure. Dean's eyebrows raised as he was momentarily confused by her question. As he realized who she was addressing, he pointed a thumb at the passenger.

"Who, him?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, that's Bobby. He's not hungry. Sleeping off a bit of hard partying, if you know what I mean," he hinted with a wink.

Amy became immediately flustered and laughed nervously. "Oh I getcha. Nice," she giggled. As she handed Dean his food, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, pleading for any continuation of the interaction. The moment the food hit Dean's hand, he grinned.

"Thanks, babe," he expressed. Within moments, he zoomed off, rushing to leave Indianapolis behind.

About an hour later, the food was gone, as well as the busy streets. Dean zipped down an empty, country road, still talking to his silent passenger.

"You got family, Bobby?" Dean glanced in the rearview mirror for an answer. "I do. Not much, though. There's my brother, Sammy, although I haven't seen him in, what, five years? Just as well though. I don't think he'd be too happy to see me, and I can't say the feeling wouldn't be mutual. There's Bobby, too. He's basically family, but I haven't seen him in awhile, either. See, he took Sammy and me in after Mom died." Dean fell silent, studying the road ahead of him from beneath furrowed brows. "If you're wondering about Dad, well, don't worry too much. Let's just say he didn't take Mom's death well."

Dean brought the car around a snake-like curve, and the passenger flopped onto the leather of the backseat. Dean whipped around to glance at the passenger.

"Whoa, hey. Watch it, bud. Don't get blood on her seats, alright?" Dean peered into the rearview, studying the now-brown splotches that had finally stopped spreading across the light fabric of Bobby's shirt. "My baby and I have been through, well, everything together. I've carried loads of people in here. Although," he smirked as he watched the road ahead, "none of them really got to sit anywhere but the trunk. Oh, look at that," Dean remarked, turning off the road down a rocky trail. "It's your stop, Bobby." He drove down through a grove of trees and stopped on the lip of a cliff. After shutting off the car, Dean walked around to drag the body from the backseat. He tucked Bobby's jacket around him, keeping himself and the car free of blood stains. He buttoned the jacket before tossing the body over his shoulder and approached the cliff's edge.

"Man, Bobby. You're lighter than you look. Really should have enjoyed that meal you bitched about so much, you know that?" Dean held the body for a moment longer, admiring the white foam of the waves below. "Great view. Shame you can't see it," he muttered. He peered down at the sharp rocks that jutted from the side of the cliff, and wondered just how far he could throw the lightweight.

"Well, Bobby, it's been fun, but here's where you get off." Dean lowered the body from his shoulder and held it like a small child out over the waves. With one swift movement, he hurled the skinny body over the edge and into the ice cold water. "Happy trails," Dean muttered, waving to the quickly disappearing form. The wind began to pick up, and Dean turned his collar up to protect him from the wind.

"Ten bucks says it takes Sammy less than a week to find this body and blame the wrong guy," Dean mumbled to himself, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Either way, see you soon, Sammy."


	2. Chapter 2

Indianapolis, Indiana

"You know she was into you, right? Like seriously into you," Lucifer explained to his partner. Lucifer watched his partner from the passenger seat, searching for any sort of reaction or response. After a period of silence, the driver spoke in a voice void of emotion.

"Was she? I didn't notice," Sam replied flatly, never taking his eyes off the road.

Lucifer snorted. "I guess you didn't. She was cute."

"She was a witness, Pellegrino," Sam scolded.

Lucifer gave him a pained look. "Sammy! How many times have I told you to call me Lucifer? Or Lou? Hell, even Lucy's better than Pellegrino," he pouted. "So impersonal."

Sam exited off the main road and spared Lucifer a glance. "I'd call it professional," he retorted.

Lucifer grimaced. "Professional, huh? Like those girly locks of yours?" He emphasized the statement by flipping back some of Sam's hair, causing him to pull away.

"Knock it off. What I do with my hair is my business. It's clean, and that's all that matters," Sam stated, straightening up behind the wheel.

Lucifer raised an eyebrow and ran a hand through his short, sandy hair. "I think you mean it's well-liked by the boss, so she lets you keep it."

"What? Now you're being ridiculous," Sam scoffed.

"No! No, see I heard her the other day," Lucifer insisted. As he continued, he raised his voice to a painful falsetto. "'That Sam Winchester, my, my. Such a brooding, handsome young stallion. The things I'd do to him!'" Lucifer grinned at Sam's uncomfortable expression.

"Mrs. Wood is fifty nine years old with a husband and three kids. I don't think she'd say something like that," Sam protested.

Lucifer shrugged. "I think she would. She says stuff like that about all the younger agents. Although her description of you is kind of wrong," he muttered. For a moment, Sam looked almost hurt.

"Wrong? What do you mean wrong?" he asked.

"You're not much of a horse. I'd go more with a big ol' moose."

"Hey-"

"Oh hey! Our stop. Turn here," Lucifer interjected quickly. Sam caught sight of the winding side road just in time and swerved into the far lane, cutting off a bright red stationwagon. An angry honk sounded from the car.

"Shit!" Sam hissed, while Lucifer laughed at the weak car horn. Sam spared his partner a glare and cleared his throat. "I'd appreciate a bit more focus, if you don't mind. How far down the coast are we going?"

Lucifer poked his head outside the window and glanced up and down the water's edge. "Uh...looks like crime scene tape over that way, so keep going straight, I guess."

"You guess?" Sam repeated. "Jesus, Lucifer. We've been partners for three years and you have yet to use your observational skills."

Lucifer rolled his eyes. "Just shut up and go straight. I can see Crowley up ahead," he mumbled.

Sam attempted to repress a pained look. "You sure it's him?"

"Sure as I'm your partner. He seems in a better mood than usual, though," Lucifer remarked.

Sam sighed. "Whatever. Let's just get it over with." As Sam pulled the car to a stop on the outskirts of the police tape, the pair's boss, James Crowley, caught sight of them and approached. Sam peered around him, vying for a glance at the crime scene. The rocky shore was covered in swarms of people, ranging from county officers to CSI personnel. Other than Crowley, there wasn't a single FBI agent on scene. Lucifer made a small, confused sound when Crowley tapped on the glass of Sam's window. Sam climbed out of the car and straightened his suit, taking the chance to look around the scene.

"'Bout time you boys got here. You have any idea how much press I've had to shoo away?" Crowley demanded. Sam cocked his head to the side and opened his mouth to respond, but Lucifer beat him to it.

"Why'd you have to shoo away anyone? This looks way more low key than I expected from your, quote, urgent call," he remarked.

Sam nodded in agreement. "Also, why were we called in in the first place?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "As always, you two are jumping to conclusions. Why don't you examine the body before you close the case, huh?" Sam examined his boss, an impish, sarcastic man, and shrugged. Lucifer made a grandiose sweeping gesture.

"Lead the way, mon capitain," he instructed.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Remind me again why they sent you two?"

"Because I'm partners with the prodigy, boss," Lucifer responded.

Crowley groaned. "Right. Move along."

Sam and Lucifer slipped under the police tape, weaving through the crowds and flashing their badges every few feet. Crime scene investigators scuttled across the rocks like crabs, hurrying back and forth with evidence bags. Once the pair could fight their way to the center of the crowd, they were met with hundreds of questions. A bloated corpse was sprawled across the rocks, facedown in the sand. Sam crouched in front of the body's head, pulling on a pair of gloves. The corpse's hair was matted with seaweed and missing in patches, and the skin that was visible around it was a sick, pasty grey. The head was turned to the side, so Sam flipped a limp lock of hair off of the corpse's face. He recoiled almost instantly at the sight of the corpse's eyes, or lack thereof.

"Whoa. Sick," Lucifer mumbled, crouching beside Sam.

"I'll say," Sam replied. "Crowley! Can you come here for a minute?"

Crowley strolled to where they crouched and stood over them. "You solve the case yet?"

"What? No," Sam answered. "This body's been sitting in the water for at least two weeks. Any clues we could have had are gone by now." Crowley crouched beside the body and pulled on the dark jacket it wore. He tugged until he could slip it off of one of the corpse's arms.

"Hey! Quit touching the body! We're not done yet!" one of the investigators yelled.

"Ah, bugger off!" Crowley bellowed back. He pulled the jacket to the side and pointed at a small hole in the corpse's shirt. "There's not much blood left, but there's still a hole," he explained. Sam peered closer, while Lucifer pulled a pair of glasses out of his jacket, putting them on before he studied the hole.

"Wow. That's it? Hard to believe that tiny hole killed a," he supressed a laugh, "strapping lad like this."

Sam rolled his eyes. "He's only 130 pounds. 135 at most. Besides, that's just an exit wound. I'm betting he was hit with a powerful pistol. Meant to kill."

"What else would it be meant for?"

"Self-defense or intimidation," Sam responded. He turned to Crowley before adding, "You think it's our guy, don't you?"

Lucifer's jaw dropped in surprise. "Our guy? As in the teleporting maniac we've been chasing for four years? No way!"

"For once," Sam sighed, "I'm forced to agree. Boss, we just found a body six states away. Two weeks ago, when this guy would have been murdered, we found a body in Washington. That puts Teleporter in two places at once."

Crowley's expression became grave. "True. Unless we have two killers."

"Two? One wasn't bad enough?" Lucifer groaned.

"It makes sense," Sam agreed. "There are some distinct differences between a lot of the kills. There's still a big question though."

"What's that?" Crowley inquired.

"Are they working together or are we dealing with two completely separate killers?" Sam posed. Both Crowley and Lucifer remained silent for an extended period. Crowley replaced the jacket on the corpse and rose to his feet, whipping his cell from his pocket.

"Meg? We have a problem that's gonna take loads of your best men."


	3. Chapter 3

Seattle, Washington

Blood sprayed across the concrete floor in a wide arc. Mark Collins struggled against the thick ropes that held him to the chair, while his heart frantically tried to replace the blood he was losing. The room was quickly going dark, but the man that circled him wouldn't allow him to pass out. He slapped Mark quick and hard straight across the cheek, making him cry out.

"Focus! Don't you pass out on me now. You've given me nothing. You're wasting my time," his attacker hissed.

Mark squirmed weakly, glancing down at the deep gash that had torn his chest open. "What can I possibly give you? I'll give you anything. Just please don't kill me," he whimpered, spitting blood as he blubbered.

"You know what I want, yet you've told me nothing. I need information regarding the murder here three weeks ago. You worked on the case. I know you did." The attacker loomed over Mark with a bloodied machete in hand. His dark blue eyes were fierce and focused, and were it not for the blood splattered across his shirt, he'd appear almost boyish.

Mark exhaled in a shaky breath. "God, what does that even matter? You a psycho cop or something? Who are you?!" he demanded.

His attacker lowered his weapon and considered the question for a moment. "Not that it matters, but I suppose you might be more comfortable talking to someone with a name. Call me Castiel."

Mark creased his brow in confusion. "You one of them Jesus freaks?" he inquired. "Takin' a holy name like that?"

Castiel shrugged. "No. You're obviously not either. It's not a holy name. It simply means 'my cover is God'."

Mark scoffed. "I don't think God would cover you much for what you're doing."

Castiel gazed at his blade thoughtfully, momentarily falling into a stressful memory. "I doubt he'll cover me, but I think he'd understand. Now again, give me details on the case. What have you found?" He pressed the blade against Mark's forearm at the elbow. "I know how to make a tourniquet and I have enough materials to make four. Tell me what you know or the arm comes off."

A bolt of fear struck Mark's heart. "You're completely nuts, aren't you?" he asked. "You show no emotion. Your eyes are so sharp, but empty. Your face is blank."

Castiel raised his eyebrows. "I focus on what needs to be done. Not my feelings." He pressed the blade harder into Mark's arm, drawing blood. Mark inhaled in a hiss. "Talk," Castiel repeated.

Mark groaned. "We haven't found anything. The body was hacked to pieces and the weapon was missing. No ID, no motive, no idea who killed who," he explained.

"And the other murders?"

"What other murders?" Mark asked.

"I can see why you've found nothing," Castiel remarked. "The hundreds of bodies that have cropped up all over the United States over the past four years."

Bewilderment flooded Mark's gaze. "But...those can't be related. They're too random and scattered. Unless..." Realization dawned on him. "It's you. It's you, isn't it? You're the one killing people! God, you're sick!"

Castiel sliced into Mark's arm, severing tendons but not the arm. Not yet, he thought. Control yourself. "No. I'm not sick. I kill with purpose. Less than a quarter of those kills are mine. I've kept precise track," he stated. "Someone else has been killing, and they do it for completely different reasons. That's why the kills are so scattered, and why no one seems to even know we're two separate people." He stopped and straightened up, watching the wheels in Mark's brain turn. "You had no idea, did you? The thought didn't even cross your mind. No wonder you've gotten nowhere."

His pain momentarily forgotten for curiosity's sake, Mark asked, "Who's the other killer then?"

"His name doesn't matter," Castiel replied. "He'll be dead soon, in a way that no one will even be able to identify his body. He'll disappear nameless and unimportant, like the repulsive creature he is."

"But you're just the same," Mark protested. "You're killing too. Maybe not as much, but..." Mark fell silent as a wave of emotion crashed in Castiel's eyes. Hair raising fury radiated off of him like pure heat. Mark opened his mouth to scream, but a bloody gurgle was all that escaped him as the machete ground into the vertebrae of his neck. Castiel drove it in until it broke through the back of Mark's neck, and shoved it out of the right side of his neck, severing his jugular. Blood so dark it was almost black spurted from the wound frantically in time with Mark's fading pulse, and Castiel found himself breathing heavily. Running a bloody hand through his dark, mussed hair, he took a step back and regained his composure.

"Idiotic man," he muttered. "I'm nothing like him." He crossed the room to where a tan trench coat was draped over a chair. Rummaging through the inner pockets, he pulled out a rag and began wiping down the machete. Annoyance pierced his thoughts.

Four years, and I'm still just trailing him. Not a single clue. Not a single witness. He sheathed the now clean blade inside the trench coat and loosened his tie and shirt, removing both carefully so as not to leave blood on his undershirt. There's got to be something these idiots are missing. Something that he forgets to cover, or something he leaves behind. I just have to be patient, he told himself. With a grunt of disdain, Castiel noticed that the cop's blood had seeped through onto his undershirt. He searched the pockets once more and grabbed a muscle shirt before pulling off the ruined shirt. The harsh light of the warehouse caught a multitude of scars and muscles, both formed by years of combat training. He hid the scars quickly beneath the muscle shirt and slipped all evidence into the coat's pockets. As he spared Mark's corpse a glance, Castiel scowled. He returned to where the body sat and untied it, carrying it into a back room lit with blinding fluoresecnts. Returning to where his coat lay, Castiel pulled a bone saw from underneath it.

Four years is patient enough, he thought, tightening his grip on the saw. Draping the coat over his arm, he went into the back room, shutting the door behind him and slicing into the body.


End file.
